


cotton & gauze

by sunnilee



Series: best laid plans [lay them to rest] [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, blue lions - Freeform, even if they don't see it :')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee
Summary: Sylvain acts before he thinks, like he usually does. And Ingrid cleans up after him, like she usually does.But something feels a little different and he can't get his brain to cooperate with him.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: best laid plans [lay them to rest] [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745746
Comments: 24
Kudos: 52





	cotton & gauze

Sylvain flinches as Ingrid brings a wet cloth to his eyebrow, fingers flexing on his knees because he _just_ might be drunk enough to do something incredibly stupid as she stands between his legs, cleaning up yet another mess of his.

She’s biting her lip, brow furrowed, as she dabs at the blood still trickling from the cut he received at her behest. He should’ve kept a closer eye on her. He shouldn’t have let her go with Annette and Dorothea to the dance floor without him. _Especially_ not in the outfit he _knows_ Dorothea picked out _specifically_ to rile him up. Not when he was doing nothing more than sulking at the bar with a sympathetic Mercedes, nursing a drink and his ego when Ingrid laughed off another one of his compliments. _Again_.

Instead, he watched some low-life sneak up behind her, hand creeping toward the edge of her skirt, _underneath it_ —he was out of the bar stool before Mercedes could grab him, knuckles already scraping against the other man’s teeth. He barely registered the muffled shouts and hands pulling at his shoulders, he was entirely too focused on breaking the bones of the man beneath him. Then, a small, yet strong hand caught his arm and his head whipped up to find Ingrid, mouth flattened, eyes hard. His anger faltered at the sight of her, shame rising into his throat, when his head snapped in the other direction, brow sliced open and wind knocked out of him as the scumbag wrestled out from underneath him. His ears were ringing as he blearily watched Felix shove the man away from him and deliver a swift kick to the ribs. He stumbled over his own feet when Ingrid dragged him out of the building and flagged down a taxi. She’d rattled off his address and they sat in complete silence for the entire ride to his apartment. She maintained her silence until she flipped the lid of his toilet down and ordered him to sit while she checked his head and eyes with quiet efficiency. Then, she disappeared to rummage around for the first aid kit she stashed in his room, for this _exact_ purpose.

Now, he finds himself sitting in his bathroom, embarrassment and rage still churning in his stomach, as Ingrid reaches over his shoulder for a cotton round. He hisses when the sting of alcohol touches his wound, fingers going white as he grips his knees harder. Ingrid _tsk’s_ above him and moves in closer when he unconsciously wriggles away from her hands. He exhales shakily when he feels her breath wash over his face, his body barely winning the battle over his mind about grabbing her hips and resting his forehead against her bared collarbone.

He winces when she dries his skin but doesn’t move away as she places a small strip of gauze over the wound. Ingrid still hasn’t said a word to him since telling him to sit, and he wishes she’d scold him instead. To hear how stupid he is, how he _definitely_ deserved this, how she could’ve handled herself.

 _Anything_.

Anything would be better than the incessant voice in the back of his mind whispering about how soft her skin would be if he just _reached out and_ —

“How’s your hand?”

Sylvain blinks at her voice and looks up. Ingrid is expressionless, but her hand still lingers on his face, thumb absently brushing along the medical tape holding the gauze in place, the other burning into his shoulder. He fights the urge to lace his fingers with hers. He clears his throat, but his voice comes out scratchy anyway. “Fine.”

She scoffs quietly, hand leaving his face to wet another cotton round with alcohol. He almost whines. _Almost_.

She grabs his right hand roughly, swiping at the dried blood with more force than necessary. He grimaces, but steadfastly keeps his mouth _shut_. A little rough treatment from Ingrid never killed him before.

Her silence might though.

Sylvain sneaks a glance at her from beneath his hair. Her mouth is still set in a straight line, but her brow is furrowed again as she wipes and wipes at the blood on his hands, eyes narrowing with frustration. He swallows his pride. “Ing?”

She doesn’t look at him, but he feels the pressure on his hand increase. He tries again. “Ingrid.”

Ingrid snaps. She flings the cotton in her hand into the trash and steps away from him, fists clenching at her sides. “ _What_ , Sylvain? What are you possibly going to say to me this time?”

He takes in her rigid posture and tense shoulders. His mind tells him to take her hands.

So, he does.

She doesn’t even try to swat him away, like he expects her to.

Sylvain gently pulls her back into his space, still sitting so he can look up at her. She lets him, but she doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He squeezes her hands. “Are you okay?”

When she finally does look at him, he’s taken aback by the distinct lack of anger in her eyes. Instead, they’re sad. _Hurt_. His heart constricts in his chest as she pulls her hands out of his grasp, arms folding across her chest, face turning away from him. Now he sits, hands useless in his lap, as he watches Ingrid chew on her lower lip, eyes looking everywhere but him.

He feels stupid. _Colossally_ dumb.

The silence stretches between them and Sylvain can’t quite force the insincere apology out of his throat. Because he’s _not_ sorry he knocked a few teeth out of the bastard who thought he could touch a girl like that without her permission. He doesn’t regret tackling him to the floor for the sole purpose of _breaking_ something.

But he doesn’t want Ingrid to be upset with him.

So, he’s just about to apologize when her whisper cuts him off. “You promised.”

He shuts his mouth as he meets her familiar glare. His heart starts beating again. _There she is._

Ingrid steps closer and he automatically scoots back, jostling the medical supplies behind him. “You promised me, Sylvain. You promised that you’d think before you act. That you wouldn’t act so casually about getting hurt.”

His mouth moves faster than his brain. “I’m not sorry.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows shoot up and he’s mentally kicking himself. _Time to lay in the bed he made._ “I’m not sorry for beating up the asshole who thought he could cop a feel when you weren’t looking.”

Ingrid sighs and steps back, dropping her arms and leaning back against the wall. “You know I can handle myself, Sylvain.”

Sylvain recalls the disgusting smirk he saw on the other man’s face and clenches his jaw. “Still.”

She pushes away from the wall and picks up his right hand, loosening the fist he didn’t know he made. She grabs a fresh piece of cotton and wets it, and resumes wiping the blood off his knuckles. Gently this time.

His fingers twitch in her grip as she works. She exhales heavily as she reaches for another strip of gauze. “ _Still_. You know I would’ve handled it. It’s not like I’m your girlfriend or anything.”

Sylvain bites down on his tongue. Hard. At the truth that almost slipped past his lips. ‘ _But I want you to be.’_

He gulps and opts to stay silent. Not when every single part of his body refuses to cooperate with him tonight.

She’s wrapping his knuckles, slower than she usually does, fingers lingering over his skin, and Sylvain feels the burn they leave in their wake when she withdraws. He watches her pack everything neatly back into the kit and just as she’s about to leave, he blurts, “that doesn’t change anything.”

Ingrid turns, surprise across her face. Sylvain plows on, “you’re still my best friend. If there’s one thing I can do right, it’s keep you safe. I wasn’t about to let that prick do anything to you, girlfriend or not.”

Her eyes search his face, expression unreadable. He feels his palms start to sweat as she studies him, heat rising on the back of his neck when she continues to say nothing. He’s about to start rambling to change the subject, but she laughs. Something quiet, and maybe a little bit of something else Sylvain doesn’t dare hope for. Ingrid gives him a small smile that he’s never seen before.

It sends electricity down his spine and sets his nerves on fire.

“Whatever helps you feel better.” Then, she leaves to store the first aid kit back in his room and he deflates against the bathroom counter when she’s out of sight.

Sylvain needed to give Dorothea a serious talking to about fashion choices.

 _Particularly_ fashion choices meant to ruin his life.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, your friendly neighborhood medical student cooped up in quarantine and hoarding all of my sylvgrid writing until I have something substantial to post.
> 
> I've been struck by the Blue Lions by watching my brother play for 5 minutes. Enough time for Sylvain to walk on the screen and commandeer my last brain cell. There's something so immensely satisfying watching a man with unwavering confidence fluster in front of his best friend because he caught feelings...
> 
> And here we are today with a one-shot in a modern au I have 5 other files of writing for.
> 
> So here's to my irl sylvgrid enablers, for egging me on with each fic and joining my complete degeneracy :). Happy birthday!!!


End file.
